Ril  h 

1 
• 

BEERBO! 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 


AN  EDITION  DE  LUXE 

THE  HAPPY 
HYPOCRITE 

By  MAX  BEERBOHM 

With  24  Illustrations  in  Color 
By  George  Sheringham 

Crown  Quarto.    Cloth,  $7.50  net 

» 

Mr.  Beerbohm's  "Happy  Hypocrite"  orig- 
inally appeared  in  The  Yellow  Book.  It  was 
afterwards  published  in  book  form  and  has 
since  been  successfully  produced  as  a  play. 

The  colored  illustrations  are  beautiful  re- 
productions in  facsimile  on  a  specially  made 
antique  paper  on  which  the  text  is  also  printed, 
and  the  book  is  one  of  the  most  luxurious  edi- 
tions of  the  season. 


The  Happy  Hypocrite 

A  FAIRY  TALE  FOR  TIRED  MEN 


BY 

MAX  BEERBOHM 

AUTHOR  OF 
"ZULEIKA  DOBSON,"  "MoRE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
MCMXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 
BY  JOHN  LANK 

COPYRIGHT,  1906 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

XT  ONE,  it  is  said,  of  all  who  revelled  with 
the  Regent,  was  half  so  wicked  as  Lord 
George  Hell.  I  will  not  trouble  my  little 
readers  with  a  long  recital  of  his  great  naugh- 
tiness. But  it  were  well  they  should  know 
that  he  was  greedy,  destructive,  and  disobedi- 
ent. I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  that  he 
often  sat  up  at  Carlton  House  until  long  after 
bed-time,  playing  at  games,  and  that  he  gen- 
erally ate  and  drank  more  than  was  good  for 
him.  His  fondness  for  fine  clothes  was  such 
that  he  used  to  dress  on  week-days  quite  as 
gorgeously  as  good  people  dress  on  Sundays. 
He  was  thirty-five  years  old  and  a  great  grief 
to  his  parents. 

And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  he  set  such  a 
bad  example  to  others.  Never,  never  did  he 
try  to  conceal  his  wrong-doing ;  so  that,  in  time, 

5 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

every  one  knew  how  horrid  he  was.  In  fact, 
I  think  he  was  proud  of  being  horrid.  Cap- 
tain Tarleton,  in  his  account  of  Contemporary 
Bucks,  suggested  that  his  Lordship's  great  Can- 
dour was  a  virtue  and  should  incline  us  to  for- 
give some  of  his  abominable  faults.  But,  pain- 
ful as  it  is  to  me  to  dissent  from  any  opinion 
expressed  by  one  who  is  now  dead,  I  hold  that 
Candour  is  good  only  when  it  reveals  good  ac- 
tions or  good  sentiments,  and  that,  when  it  re- 
veals evil,  itself  is  evil,  even  also. 

Lord  George  Hell  did,  at  last,  atone  for  all 
his  faults,  in  a  way  that  was  never  revealed  to 
the  world  during  his  life-time.  The  reason 
of  his  strange  and  sudden  disappearance  from 
that  social  sphere,  in  which  he  had  so  long 
moved  and  never  moved  again,  I  will  unfold. 
My  little  readers  will  then,  I  think,  acknowl- 
edge that  any  angry  judgment  they  may  have 
passed  upon  him  must  be  reconsidered  and,  it 
may  be,  withdrawn.  I  will  leave  his  lordship 
in  their  hands.  But  my  plea  for  him  will  not 
be  based  upon  that  Candour  of  his,  which  some 
of  his  friends  so  much  admired.  There  were, 

6 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

yes !  some  so  weak  and  so  wayward  as  to  think 
it  a  fine  thing  to  have  an  historic  title  and  no 
scruples.  "Here  comes  George  Hell,"  they 
would  say,  "How  wicked  my  lord  is  looking!" 
Noblesse  oblige,  you  see,  and  so  an  aristocrat 
should  be  very  careful  of  his  good  name.  Anon- 
ymous naughtiness  does  little  harm. 

It  is  pleasant  to  record  that  many  persons 
were  inobnoxious  to  the  magic  of  his  title  and 
disapproved  of  him  so  strongly  that,  whenever 
he  entered  a  room  where  they  happened  to  be, 
they  would  make  straight  for  the  door  and 
watch  him  very  severely  through  the  key-hole. 
Every  morning  when  he  strolled  up  Piccadilly 
they  crossed  over  to  the  other  side  in  a  com- 
pact body,  leaving  him  to  the  companionship 
of  his  bad  companions  on  that  which  is 
still  called  the  "shady"  side.  Lord  George — 
(TxerXtos — was  quite  indifferent  to  this  demon- 
stration. Indeed,  he  seemed  wholly  hardened,' 
and  when  ladies  gathered  up  their  skirts  as 
they  passed  him  he  would  lightly  appraise  their 
ankles. 

I  am  glad  I  never  saw  his  lordship.  They 
7 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

say  he  was  rather  like  Caligula,  with  a  dash  of 
Sir  John  Falstaff,  and  that  sometimes  on  win- 
try mornings  in  St.  James's  Street  young  chil- 
dren would  hush  their  prattle  and  cling  in  dis- 
consolate terror  to  their  nurses'  skirts  as  they 
saw  him  come  (that  vast  and  fearful  gentle- 
man!) with  the  east  wind  ruffling  the  rotund 
surface  of  his  beaver,  ruffling  the  fur  about 
his  neck  and  wrists,  and  striking  the  purple  com- 
plexion of  his  cheeks  to  a  still  deeper  purple. 
"King  Bogey"  they  called  him  in  the  nurseries/ 
In  the  hours  when  they  too  were  naughty,  their 
nurses  would  predict  his  advent  down  the  chim- 
ney or  from  the  linen-press,  and  then  they  al- 
ways "behaved."  So  that,  you  see,  even  the 
unrighteous  are  a  power  for  good,  in  the  hands 
of  nurses. 

It  is  true  that  his  lordship  was  a  non-smoker 
— a  negative  virtue,  certainly,  and  due,  even 
that,  I  fear,  to  the  fashion  of  the  day — but 
there  the  list  of  his  good  qualities  comes  to  an 
abrupt  conclusion.  He  loved  with  an  insa- 
tiable love  the  town  and  the  pleasures  of  the 
town,  whilst  the  ennobling  influences  of  our 

8 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

English  lakes  were  quite  unknown  to  him.  He 
used  to  boast  that  he  had  not  seen  a  buttercup 
for  twenty  years,  and  once  he  called  the  coun- 
try "a  Fool's  Paradise."  London  was  the 
only  place  marked  on  the  map  of  his  mind. 
London  gave  him  all  he  wished  for.  Is  it  not 
extraordinary  to  think  that  he  had  never  spent 
a  happy  day  nor  a  day  of  any  kind  in  Follard 
Chase,  that  desirable  mansion  in  Herts,  which 
he  had  won  from  Sir  Follard  Follard,  by  a 
chuck  of  the  dice,  at  Boodle's,  on  his  seven- 
teenth birthday?  Always  cynical  and  unkind, 
he  had  refused  to  give  the  broken  baronet  his 
"revenge."  Always  unkind  and  insolent,  he 
had  offered  to  instal  him  in  the  lodge — an  of- 
fer which  was,  after  a  little  hesitation,  accepted. 
"On  my  soul,  the  man's  place  is  a  sinecure," 
Lord  George  would  say;  "he  never  has  to  open 
the  gate  for  me."  *  So  rust  had  covered  the 
great  iron  gates  of  Follard  Chase,  and  moss 
had  covered  its  paths.  The  deer  browsed  upon 
its  terraces.  There  were  only  wild  flowers 
anywhere.  Deep  down  among  the  weeds  and 

1  Lord  Coleraine's  Correspondence,  page  101. 
9 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

water-lilies  of  the  little  stone-rimmed  pond  he 
had  looked  down  upon,  lay  the  marble  faun, 
as  he  had  fallen. 

Of  all  the  sins  of  his  lordship's  life  surely 
not  one  was  more  wanton  than  his  neglect  of 
Follard  Chase.  Some  whispered  (nor  did  he 
ever  trouble  to  deny)  that  he  had  won  it  by 
foul  means,  by  loaded  dice.  Indeed  no  card- 
player  in  St.  James's  cheated  more  persistently 
than  he.  As  he  was  rich  and  had  no  wife  and 
family  to  support,  and  as  his  luck  was  always 
capital,  I  can  offer  no  excuse  for  his  conduct. 
At  Carlton  House,  in  the  presence  of  many 
bishops  and  cabinet  ministers,  he  once  dunned 
the  Regent  most  arrogantly  for  5000  guineas 
out  of  which  he  had  cheated  him  some  months 
before,  and  went  so  far  as  to  declare  that  he 
would  not  leave  the  house  till  he  got  it;  where- 
upon His  Royal  Highness,  with  that  unfailing 
tact  for  which  he  was  ever  famous,  invited  him 
to  stay  there  as  a  guest,  which,  in  fact,  Lord 
George  did,  for  several  months.  After  this, 
we  can  hardly  be  surprised  when  we  read  that 
he  "seldom  sat  down  to  the  fashionable  game 

10 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

of  Limbo  with  less  than  four,  and  sometimes 
with  as  many  as  seven  aces  up  his  sleeve."  * 
We  can  only  wonder  that  he  was  tolerated  at 
all. 

At  Garble's,  that  nightly  resort  of  titled  rips 
and  roysterers,  he  usually  spent  the  early  part 
of  his  evenings.  Round  the  illuminated  gar- 
den, with  La  Gambogi,  the  dancer,  on  his  arm 
and  a  Bacchic  retinue  at  his  heels,  he  would 
amble  leisurely,  clad  in  Georgian  costume, 
which  was  not  then,  of  course,  fancy  dress,  as 
it  is  now.2  Now  and  again,  in  the  midst  of 
his  noisy  talk,  he  would  crack  a  joke  of  the 
period,  or  break  into  a  sentimental  ballad, 
dance  a  little  or  pick  a  quarrel.  When  he  tired 
of  such  fooling,  he  would  proceed  to  his  box 
in  the  tiny  al  fresco  theatre  and  patronise  the 
jugglers,  pugilists,  play-actors  and  whatever 

1  Contemporary  Bucks,  vol.  1,  page  73. 

2  It  would  seem,  however,  that,  on  special  occasions,  his 
lordship  indulged  in  odd  costumes.    "I  have  seen   him," 
says  Captain  Tarleton  (vol.  1,  p.  69),  "attired  as  a  French 
clown,  as  a  sailor,  or  in  the  crimson  hose  of  a  Sicilian 
grandee — peu  beau  spectacle.    He  never  disguised  his  face, 
whatever  his  costume,  however." 

11 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

eccentric  persons  happened  to  be  performing 
there. 

The  stars  were  splendid  and  the  moon  as 
beautiful  as  a  great  camelia  one  night  in  May, 
as  his  lordship  laid  his  arms  upon  the  cushioned 
ledge  of  his  box  and  watched  the  antics  of  the 
Merry  Dwarf,  a  little,  curly-headed  creature, 
whose  debut  it  was.  Certainly  Garble  had 
found  a  novelty.  Lord  George  led  the  ap- 
plause, and  the  Dwarf  finished  his  frisking  with 
a  pretty  song  about  lovers.  Nor  was  this  all. 
Feats  of  archery  were  to  follow.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  Dwarf  reappeared  with  a  small,  gilded 
bow  in  his  hand  and  a  quiverful  of  arrows 
slung  at  his  shoulder.  Hither  and  thither  he 
shot  these  vibrant  arrows,  very  precisely,  sev- 
eral into  the  bark  of  the  acacias  that  grew 
about  the  overt  stage,  several  into  the  fluted 
columns  of  the  boxes,  two  or  three  to  the  stars. 
The  audience  was  delighted.  "Bravo!  Bravo 
Saggitaro!"  murmured  Lord  George,  in  the 
language  of  La  Gambogi,  who  was  at  his  side. 
Finally,  the  waxen  figure  of  a  man  was  car- 
ried on  by  an  assistant  and  propped  against  the 

12 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

trunk  of  a  tree.  A  scarf  was  tied  across  the 
eyes  of  the  Merry  Dwarf,  who  stood  in  a  re- 
mote corner  of  the  stage.  Bravo  indeed! 
For  the  shaft  had  pierced  the  waxen  figure 
through  the  heart  or  just  where  the  heart 
would  have  been,  if  the  figure  had  been  hu- 
man and  not  waxen. 

Lord  George  called  for  port  and  champagne 
and  beckoned  the  bowing  homuncle  to  his  box, 
that  he  might  compliment  him  on  his  skill  and 
pledge  him  in  a  bumper  of  the  grape. 

"On  my  soul,  you  have  a  genius  for  the  bow," 
his  lordship  cried  with  florid  condescension. 
"Come  and  sit  by  me,  but  first  let  me  present 
you  to  my  divine  companion  the  Signora  Gam- 
bogi — Virgo  and  Sagittarius,  egad!  You  may 
have  met  on  the  Zodiac." 

"Indeed,  I  met  the  Signora  many  years  ago," 
the  Dwarf  replied,  with  a  low  bow.  "But  not 
on  the  Zodiac,  and  the  Signora  perhaps  for- 
gets me." 

At  this  speech  the  Signora  flushed  angrily, 
for  she  was  indeed  no  longer  young,  and  the 
Dwarf  had  a  childish  face.  She  thought  he 

13 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

mocked  her;  her  eyes  flashed.     Lord  George's 
twinkled  rather  maliciously. 

"Great  is  the  experience  of  youth,"  he 
laughed.  "Pray,  are  you  stricken  with  more 
than  twenty  summers?"  "With  more  than  I 
can  count,"  said  the  Dwarf.  "To  the  health 
of  your  lordship!"  and  he  drained  his  long 
glass  of  wine.  Lord  George  replenished  it, 
and  asked  by  what  means  or  miracle  he  had 
acquired  his  mastery  of  the  bow. 

"By  long  practice,"  the  little  thing  rejoined; 
"long  practice  on  human  creatures."  And  he 
nodded  his  curls  mysteriously. 

"On  my  heart,  you  are  a  dangerous  box- 
mate." 

"Your  lordship  were  certainly  a  good  tar- 
get." 

Little  liking  this  joke  at  his  bulk,  which 
really  rivalled  the  Regent's,  Lord  George 
turned  brusquely  in  his  chair  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  stage.  This  time  it  was  the  Gam- 
bogi  who  laughed. 

A  new  operette,  The  Fair  Captive  of  Samar- 
cand,  was  being  enacted,  and  the  frequenters  of 

14 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

Garble's  were  all  curious  to  behold  the  new 
debutante,  Jenny  Mere,  who  was  said  to  be 
both  pretty  and  talented.  These  predictions 
were  surely  fulfilled,  when  the  captive  peeped 
from  the  window  of  her  wooden  turret.  She 
looked  so  pale  under  her  blue  turban.  Her 
eyes  were  dark  with  fear;  her  parted  lips  did 
not  seem  capable  of  speech.  "Is  it  that  she 
is  frightened  of  us?"  the  audience  wondered. 
"Or  of  the  flashing  scimitar  of  Aphoschaz,  the 
cruel  father  who  holds  her  captive?"  So  they 
gave  her  loud  applause,  and  when  at  length  she 
jumped  down,  to  be  caught  in  the  arms  of  her 
gallant  lover,  Nissarah,  and,  throwing  aside 
her  Eastern  draperies,  did  a  simple  dance,  in 
the  convention  of  Columbine,  their  delight  was 
quite  unbounded.  She  was  very  young  and  did 
not  dance  very  well,  it  is  true,  but  they  for- 
gave her  that.  And  when  she  turned  in  the 
dance  and  saw  her  father  with  his  scimitar, 
their  hearts  beat  swiftly  for  her.  Nor  were 
all  eyes  tearless  when  she  pleaded  with  him  for 
her  life. 

Strangely  absorbed,  quite  callous  of  his  two 
15 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

companions,  Lord  George  gazed  over  the  foot- 
lights. He  seemed  as  one  who  was  in  a  trance. 
Of  a  sudden,  something  shot  sharp  into  his 
heart.  In  pain  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and,  as 
he  turned,  he  seemed  to  see  a  winged  and 
laughing  child,  in  whose  hand  was  a  bow,  fly 
swiftly  away  into  the  darkness.  At  his  side 
was  the  Dwarf's  chair.  It  was  empty.  Only 
La  Gambogi  was  with  him,  and  her  dark  face 
was  like  the  face  of  a  fury. 

Presently  he  sank  back  into  his  chair,  holding 
one  hand  to  his  heart,  that  still  throbbed  from 
the  strange  transfixion.  He  breathed  very  pain- 
fully and  seemed  scarce  conscious  of  his  sur- 
roundings. But  La  Gambogi  knew  he  would 
pay  no  more  homage  to  her  now,  for  that  the 
love  of  Jenny  Mere  had  come  into  his  heart. 

When  the  operette  was  over,  his  love-sick 
lordship  snatched  up  his  cloak  and  went  away 
without  one  word  to  the  lady  at  his  side. 
Rudely  he  brushed  aside  Count  Karoloff  and 
Mr.  FitzClarence,  with  whom  he  had  arranged 
to  play  hazard.  Of  his  comrades,  his  syn- 


16 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

icism,  his  reckless  scorn — of  all  the  material  of 
his  existence — he  was  oblivious  now.  He  had 
no  time  for  penitence  or  diffident  delay.  He 
only  knew  that  he  must  kneel  at  the  feet  of 
Jenny  Mere  and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

"Miss  Mere,"  said  Garble,  "is  in  her  room, 
resuming  her  ordinary  attire.  If  your  lordship 
deign  to  await  the  conclusion  of  her  humble 
toilet,  it  shall  be  my  privilege  to  present  her  to 
your  lordship.  Even  now,  indeed,  I  hear  her 
footfall  on  the  stair." 

Lord  George  uncovered  his  head  and  with 
one  hand  nervously  smoothed  his  rebellious  wig. 

"Miss  Mere,  come  hither,"  said  Garble. 
"This  is  my  Lord  George  Hell,  that  you  have 
pleased  whom  by  your  poor  efforts  this  night 
will  ever  be  the  prime  gratification  of  your 
passage  through  the  roseate  realms  of  art." 

Little  Miss  Mere  who  had  never  seen  a  lord, 
except  in  fancy  or  in  dreams,  curtseyed  shyly 
and  hung  her  head.  With  a  loud  crash  Lord 
George  fell  on  his  knees.  The  manager  was 
greatly  surprised,  the  girl  greatly  embarrassed. 


17 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

Yet  neither  of  them  laughed,  for  sincerity  dig- 
nified his  posture  and  sent  eloquence  from  its 
lips. 

"Miss  Mere,"  he  cried,  "give  ear,  I  pray 
you,  to  my  poor  words,  nor  spurn  me  in  mis- 
prision  from  the  pedestal  of  your  beauty, 
genius,  and  virtue.  All  too  conscious,  alas !  of 
my  presumption  in  the  same,  I  yet  abase  my- 
self before  you  as  a  suitor  for  your  adorable 
hand.  I  grope  under  the  shadow  of  your  raven 
locks.  I  am  dazzled  in  the  light  of  those 
translucent  orbs,  your  eyes.  In  the  intolerable 
whirlwind  of  your  fame  I  faint  and  am  afraid." 

"Sir "  the  girl  began,  simply. 

"Say  'My  Lord,'  "  said  Garble,  solemnly. 

"My  lord,  I  thank  you  for  your  words. 
They  are  beautiful.  But  indeed,  indeed,  I  can 
never  be  your  bride." 

Lord  George  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Child,"  said  Mr.  Garble,  "let  not  the  sun 
rise  e'er  you  have  retracted  those  wicked 
words." 

"My  wealth,  my  rank,  my  irremeable  love 
for  you,  I  throw  them  at  your  feet,"  Lord 
18 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

George  cried,  piteously.  "I  would  wait  an 
hour,  a  week,  a  lustre,  even  a  decade,  did  you 
but  bid  me  hope!" 

"I  can  never  be  your  wife,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"I  can  never  be  the  wife  of  any  man  whose 
face  is  not  saintly.  Your  face,  my  lord,  mir- 
rors, it  may  be,  true  love  for  me,  but  it  is  even 
as  a  mirror  long  tarnished  by  the  reflection  of 
this  world's  vanity.  It  is  even  as  a  tarnished 
mirror.  Do  not  kneel  to  me,  for  I  am  poor 
and  humble.  I  was  not  made  for  such  im- 
petuous wooing.  Kneel,  if  you  please,  to  some 
greater,  gayer  lady.  As  for  my  love,  it  is  my 
own,  nor  can  it  ever  be  torn  from  me,  but 
given,  as  true  love  needs  be  given,  freely.  Ah, 
rise  from  your  knees.  That  man,  whose  face 
is  wonderful  as  the  faces  of  the  saints,  to  him 
I  will  give  my  true  love." 

Miss  Mere,  though  visibly  affected,  had 
spoken  this  speech  with  a  gesture  and  elocu- 
tion so  superb,  that  Mr.  Garble  could  not  help 
applauding,  deeply  though  he  regretted  her  at- 
titude towards  his  honoured  patron.  As  for 
Lord  George,  he  was  immobile,  a  stricken  oak. 

19 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

With  a  sweet  look  of  pity,  Miss  Mere  went  her 
way,  and  Mr.  Garble,  with  some  solicitude, 
helped  his  lordship  to  rise  from  his  knees.  Out 
into  the  night,  without  a  word,  his  lordship 
\vent.  Above  him  the  stars  were  still  splendid. 
They  seemed  to  mock  the  festoons  of  little 
lamps,  dim  now  and  guttering  in  the  garden  of 
Garble's.  What  should  he  do?  No  thoughts 
came;  only  his  heart  burnt  hotly.  He  stood 
on  the  brim  of  Garble's  lake,  shallow  and  arti- 
ficial as  his  past  life  had  been.  Two  swans 
slept  on  its  surface.  The  moon  shone  strangely 
upon  their  white,  twisted  necks.  Should  he 
drown  himself?  There  was  no  one  in  the  gar- 
den to  prevent  him,  and  in  the  morning  they 
would  find  him  floating  there,  one  of  the  noblest 
of  love's  victims.  The  garden  would  be  closed 
in  the  evening.  There  would  be  no  perfor- 
mance in  the  little  theatre.  It  might  be  that 
Jenny  Mere  would  mourn  him.  "Life  is  a 
prison,  without  bars,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
walked  away. 

All    night    long    he    strode,    knowing    not 
whither,   through   the   mysterious   streets   and 
20 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

squares  of  London.  The  watchmen,  to  whom 
his  figure  was  most  familiar,  gripped  their 
staves  at  his  approach,  for  they  had  old  rea- 
son to  fear  his  wild  and  riotous  habits.  He 
did  not  heed  them.  Through  that  dim  conflict 
between  darkness  and  day,  which  is  ever  waged 
silently  over  our  sleep,  Lord  George  strode  on 
in  the  deep  absorption  of  his  love  and  of  his 
despair.  At  dawn  he  found  himself  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  little  wood  in  Kensington.  A 
rabbit  rushed  past  him  through  the  dew.  Birds 
were  fluttering  in  the  branches.  The  leaves 
were  tremulous  with  the  presage  of  day,  and 
the  air  was  full  of  the  sweet  scent  of  hyacinths. 
How  cool  the  country  was!  It  seemed  to 
cure  the  feverish  maladies  of  his  soul  and  con- 
secrate his  love.  In  the  fair  light  of  the  dawn 
he  began  to  shape  the  means  of  winning  Jenny 
Mere,  that  he  had  conceived  in  the  desperate 
hours  of  the  night.  Soon  an  old  woodman 
passed  by,  and,  with  rough  courtesy,  showed 
him  the  path  that  would  lead  him  quickest  to 
the  town.  He  was  loth  to  leave  the  wood. 
With  Jenny,  he  thought,  he  would  live  always 
21 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

• 

in  the  country.  And  he  picked  a  posy  of  wild 
flowers  for  her. 

His  rentree  into  the  still  silent  town  strength- 
ened his  Arcadian  resolves.  He,  who  had  seen 
the  town  so  often  in  its  hours  of  sleep,  had 
never  noticed  how  sinister  its  whole  aspect  was. 
In  its  narrow  streets  the  white  houses  rose  on 
either  side  of  him  like  cliffs  of  chalk.  He  hur- 
ried swiftly  along  the  unswept  pavement. 
How  had  he  loved  this  city  of  evil  secrets? 

At  last  he  came  to  St.  James's  Square,  to  the 
hateful  door  of  his  own  house.  Shadows  lay 
like  memories  in  every  corner  of  the  dim  hall. 
Through  the  window  of  his  room  a  sunbeam 
slanted  across  his  smooth,  white  bed,  and  fell 
ghastly  on  the  ashen  grate. 


It  was  a  bright  morning  in  Old  Bond  Street, 
and  fat  little  Mr.  Aeneas,  the  fashionable 
mask-maker,  was  sunning  himself  at  the  door  of 
his  shop.  His  window  was  lined  as  usual  with 
all  kinds  of  masks — beautiful  masks  with  pink 
cheeks,  and  absurd  masks  with  protuberant 
22 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

chins;  curious  7^6™™  copied  from  old  tragic 
models;  masks  of  paper  for  children,  of  fine 
silk  for  ladies,  and  of  leather  for  working  men; 
bearded  or  beardless,  gilded  or  waxen  (most 
of  them,  indeed  were  waxen),  big  or  little 
masks.  And  in  the  middle  of  this  vain  galaxy 
hung  the  presentment  of  a  Cyclop's  face,  carved 
cunningly  of  gold,  with  a  great  sapphire  in  its 
brow. 

The  sun  gleamed  brightly  on  the  window  and 
on  the  bald  head  and  varnished  shoes  of  fat 
little  Mr.  Aeneas.  It  was  too  early  for  any 
customers  to  come  and  Mr.  Aeneas  seemed  to 
be  greatly  enjoying  his  leisure  in  the  fresh  air. 
He  smiled  complacently  as  he  stood  there,  and 
well  he  might,  for  he  was  a  great  artist,  and 
was  patronized  by  several  crowned  heads  and 
not  a  few  of  the  nobility.  Only  the  evening 
before,  Mr.  Brummell  had  come  into  his  shop 
and  ordered  a  light  summer  mask,  wishing  to 
evade  for  a  time  the  jealous  vigilance  of  Lady 
Otterton.  It  pleased  Mr.  Aeneas  to  think  that 
his  art  made  him  the  recipient  of  so  many  high 
secrets.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  titled 
23 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

spendthrifts,  who,  at  this  moment,  -per dm  be- 
hind his  masterpieces,  passed  unscathed  among 
their  creditors.  He  was  the  secular  confessor 
of  his  day,  always  able  to  give  absolution.  An 
unique  position ! 

The  street  was  as  quiet  as  a  village  street. 
At  an  open  window  over  the  way,  a  handsome 
lady,  wrapped  in  a  muslin  peignoir,  sat  sipping 
her  cup  of  chocolate.  It  was  La  Signora  Gam- 
bogi,  and  Mr.  Aeneas  made  her  many  elaborate 
bows.  This  morning,  however,  her  thoughts 
seemed  far  away,  and  she  did  not  notice  the 
little  man's  polite  efforts.  Nettled  at  her  neg- 
ligence, Mr.  Aeneas  was  on  the  point  of  retir- 
ing into  his  shop,  when  he  saw  Lord  George 
Hell  hastening  up  the  street,  with  a  posy  of 
wild  flowers  in  his  hand. 

"His  lordship  is  up  betimes  I"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "An  early  visit  to  La  Signora,  I  sup- 
pose." 

Not  so,  however.  His  lordship  came 
straight  towards  the  mask-shop.  Once  he 
glanced  up  at  the  Signora's  window  and  looked 


24 


deeply  annoyed  when  he  saw  her  sitting  there. 
He  came  quickly  into  the  shop. 

"I  want  the  mask  of  a  saint,"  he  said. 

"Mask  of  a  saint,  my  lord?  Certainly!" 
said  Mr.  Aeneas,  briskly.  "With  or  without 
halo?  His  Grace  the  Bishop  of  St.  Aldreds 
always  wears  his  with  a  halo.  Your  lordship 
does  not  wish  for  a  halo?  Certainly!  If 
your  lordship  will  allow  me  to  take  the  measure- 
ment  " 

"I  must  have  the  mask  to-day,"  Lord  George 
said.  "Have  you  none  ready-made?" 

"Ah,  I  see.  Required  for  immediate  wear," 
murmured  Mr.  Aeneas,  dubiously.  "You  see, 
your  lordship  takes  a  rather  large  size."  And 
he  looked  at  the  floor. 

"Julius!"  he  cried  suddenly  to  his  assistant, 
who  was  putting  finishing  touches  to  a  mask  of 
Barbarossa  which  the  young  king  of  Ziirrem- 
burg  was  to  wear  at  his  coronation  the  fol- 
lowing week.  "Julius!  Do  you  remember 
the  saint's  mask  we  made  for  Mr.  Ripsby,  a 
couple  of  years  ago?" 


25 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy.  "It's  stored  up- 
stairs." 

"I  thought  so,"  replied  Mr.  Aeneas.  "Mr. 
Ripsby  only  had  it  on  hire.  Step  upstairs, 
Julius,  and  bring  it  down.  I  fancy  it  is  just 
what  your  lordship  would  wish.  Spiritual,  yet 
handsome." 

"Is  it  a  mask  that  is  even  as  a  mirror  of  true 
love?"  Lord  George  asked  gravely. 

"It  was  made  precisely  as  such,"  the  mask- 
maker  answered.  "In  fact  it  was  made  for 
Mr.  Ripsby  to  wear  at  his  silver  wedding,  and 
was  very  highly  praised  by  the  relatives  of 
Mrs.  Ripsby.  Will  your  lordship  step  into  my 
little  room?" 

So  Mr.  Aeneas  led  the  way  to  his  parlour  be- 
hind the  shop.  He  was  elated  by  the  distin- 
guished acquisition  to  his  clientele,  for  hitherto 
Lord  George  had 'never  patronised  his  business. 
He  bustled  round  his  parlour  and  insisted  that 
his  lordship  should  take  a  chair  and  a  pinch 
from  his  snuff-box,  while  the  saint's  mask  was 
being  found. 

Lord  George's  eye  travelled  along  the  rows 
26 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

of  framed  letters  from  great  personages,  which 
lined  the  walls.  He  did  not  see  them  though, 
for  he  was  calculating  the  chances  that  La  Gam- 
bogi  had  not  observed  him,  as  he  entered  the 
mask-shop.  He  had  come  down  so  early  that 
he  thought  she  would  be  still  abed.  That  sinis- 
ter old  proverb,  La  jalouse  se  leve  de  bonne 
heure,  rose  in  his  memory.  His  eye  fell  uncon- 
sciously on  a  large,  round  mask  made  of  dull 
silver,  with  the  features  of  a  human  face  traced 
over  its  surface  in  faint  filigree. 

"Your  lordship  wonders  what  mask  that  is!" 
chirped  Mr.  Aeneas,  tapping  the  thing  with  one 
of  his  little  finger  nails. 

"What  is  that  mask?"  Lord  George  mur- 
mured, absently. 

"I  ought  not  to  divulge,  my  lord,"  said  the 
mask-maker.  "But  I  know  your  lordship  would 
respect  a  professional  secret,  a  secret  of  which 
I  am  pardonably  proud.  This,"  he  said,  "is 
a  mask  for  the  sun-god,  Apollo,  whom  heaven 
bless!" 

"You  astound  me,"  said  Lord  George. 

"Of  no  less  a  person,  I  do  assure  you.  When 
27 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

Jupiter,  his  father,  made  him  lord  of  the  day, 
Apollo  craved  that  he  might  sometimes  see  the 
doings  of  mankind  in  the  hours  of  night  time. 
Jupiter  granted  so  reasonable  a  request,  and 
when  next  Apollo  had  passed  over  the  sky  and 
hidden  in  the  sea,  and  darkness  had  fallen  on 
all  the  world,  he  raised  his  head  above  the  wa- 
ters that  he  might  watch  the  doings  of  mankind 
in  the  hours  of  night  time.  But,"  Mr.  Aeneas 
added,  with  a  smile,  "his  bright  countenance 
made  light  all  the  darkness.  Men  rose  from 
their  couches  or  from  their  revels,  wondering 
that  day  was  so  soon  come,  and  went  to  their 
work.  And  Apollo  sank  weeping  into  the  sea. 
'Surely,'  he  cried,  'it  is  a  bitter  thing  that  I 
alone,  of  all  the  gods,  may  not  watch  the  world 
in  the  hours  of  night  time.  For  in  those  hours, 
as  I  am  told,  men  are  even  as  gods  are.  They 
spill  the  wine  and  are  wreathed  with  roses. 
Their  daughters  dance  in  the  light  of  torches. 
They  laugh  to  the  sound  of  flutes.  On  their 
long  couches  they  lie  down  at  last  and  sleep 
comes  to  kiss  their  eyelids.  None  of  these 
things  may  I  see.  Wherefore  the  brightness  of 
28 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

my  beauty  is  even  as  a  curse  to  me  and  I  would 
put  it  from  me.'  And  as  he  wept,  Vulcan  said 
to  him,  'I  am  not  the  least  cunning  of  the  gods, 
nor  the  least  pitiful.  Do  not  weep,  for  I  will 
give  you  that  which  shall  end  your  sorrow.  Nor 
need  you  put  from  you  the  brightness  of  your 
beauty.'  And  Vulcan  made  a  mask  of  dull  sil- 
ver and  fastened  it  across  his  brother's  face. 
And  that  night,  thus  masked,  the  sun-god  rose 
from  the  sea  and  watched  the  doings  of  man- 
kind in  the  night  time.  <  Nor  any  longer  were 
men  abashed  by  his  bright  beauty,  for  it  was 
hidden  by  the  mask  of  silver.  Those  whom  he 
had  so  often  seen  haggard  over  their  daily 
tasks,  he  saw  feasting  now  and  .wreathed  with 
red  roses.  He  heard  them  laugh  to  the  sound 
of  flutes,  as  their  daughters  danced  in  the  red 
light  of  torches.  And  when  at  length  they  lay 
down  upon  their  soft  couches  and  sleep  kissed 
their  eye-lids,  he  sank  back  into  the  sea  and  hid 
his  mask  under  a  little  rock  in  the  bed  of  the 
sea.  Nor  have  men  ever  known  that  Apollo 
watches  them  often  in  the  night  time,  but  fan- 
cied it  to  be  some  pale  goddess." 
29 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"I  myself  have  always  thought  it  was 
Diana,"  said  Lord  George  Hell. 

"An  error,  my  lord!"  said  Mr.  Aeneas,  with 
a  smile.  "Ecce  signum!"  And  he  tapped  the 
mask  of  dull  silver. 

"Strange!"  said  his  lordship.  "And  pray 
how  comes  it  that  Apollo  has  ordered  of  you 
this  new  mask?" 

"He  has  always  worn  twelve  new  masks 
every  year,  inasmuch  as  no  mask  can  endure  for 
many  nights  the  near  brightness  of  his  face,  be- 
fore which  even  a  mask  of  the  best  and  purest 
silver  soon  tarnishes,  and  wears  away.  Cen- 
turies ago,  Vulcan  tired  of  making  so  very  many 
masks.  And  so  Apollo  sent  Mercury  down  to 
Athens,  to  the  shop  of  Phoron,  a  Phoenician 
mask-maker  of  great  skill.  Phoron  made 
Apollo's  masks  for  many  years,  and  every 
month  Mercury  came  to  his  shop  for  a  new  one. 
When  Phoron  died,  another  artist  was  chosen, 
and,  when  he  died,  another,  and  so  on  through 
all  the  ages  of  the  world.  Conceive,  my  lord, 
my  pride  and  pleasure  when  Mercury  flew  into 
my  shop,  one  night  last  year,  and  made  me 
30 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

Apollo's  warrant-holder.  It  is  the  highest 
privilege  that  any  mask-maker  can  desire.  And 
when  I  die,"  said  Mr.  Aeneas,  with  some  emo- 
tion, "Mercury  will  confer  my  post  upon  an- 
other." 

"And  do  they  pay  you  for  your  labour?" 
Lord  George  asked. 

Mr.  Aeneas  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height,  such  as  it  was.  "In  Olympus,  my  lord," 
he  said,  "they  have  no  currency.  For  any 
mask-maker,  so  high  a  privilege  is  its  own  re- 
ward. Yet  the  sun-god  is  generous.  He 
shines  more  brightly  into  my  shop  than  into  any 
other.  Nor  does  he  suffer  his  rays  to  melt  any 
waxen  mask  made  by  me,  until  its  wearer  doff 
it  and  it  be  done  with."  At  this  moment  Julius 
came  in  with  the  Ripsby  mask.  "I  must  ask 
your  lordship's  pardon,  for  having  kept  you  so 
long,"  pleaded  Mr.  Aeneas.  "But  I  have  a 
large  store  of  old  masks  and  they  are  imper- 
fectly catalogued." 

It  certainly  was  a  beautiful  mask,  with  its 
smooth,  pink  cheeks  and  devotional  brows.  It 
was  made  of  the  finest  wax.  Lord  George  took 
31 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

it  gingerly  in  his  hands  and  tried  it  on  his  face. 
It  fitted  a  merveille. 

"Is  the  expression  exactly  as  your  lordship 
would  wish?"  asked  Mr.  Aeneas. 

Lord  George  laid  it  on  the  table  and  studied 
it  intently.  "I  wish  it  were  more  as  a  perfect 
mirror  of  true  love,"  he  said  at  length.  "It 
is  too  calm,  too  contemplative." 

"Easily  remedied!"  said  Mr.  Aeneas.  Se- 
lecting a  fine  pencil,  he  deftly  drew  the  eye- 
brows closer  to  each  other.  With  a  brush 
steeped  in  some  scarlet  pigment,  he  put  a  fuller 
curve  upon  the  lips.  And,  behold!  it  was  the 
mask  of  a  saint  who  loves  dearly.  Lord 
George's  heart  throbbed  with  pleasure. 

"And  for  how  long  does  your  lordship  wish 
to  wear  it?"  asked  Mr.  Aeneas. 

"I  must  wear  it  until  I  die,"  replied  Lord 
George. 

"Kindly  be  seated  then,  I  pray,"  rejoined  the 
little  man.  "For  I  must  apply  the  mask  with 
great  care.  Julius,  you  will  assist  me!" 

So,  while  Julius  heated  the  inner  side  of  the 


32 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

waxen  mask  over  a  little  lamp,  Mr.  Aeneas 
stood  over  Lord  George  gently  smearing  his 
features  with  some  sweet-scented  pomade. 
Then  he  took  the  mask  and  powdered  its  in- 
ner side,  quite  soft  and  warm  now,  with  a 
fluffy  puff.  "Keep  quite  still,  for  one  instant," 
he  said,  and  clapped  the  mask  firmly  on  his 
lordship's  upturned  face.  So  soon  as  he  was 
sure  of  its  perfect  adhesion,  he  took  from  his 
assistant's  hand  a  silver  file  and  a  little  wooden 
spatula,  with  which  he  proceeded  to  pare  down 
the  edge  of  the  mask,  where  it  joined  the  neck 
and  ears.  At  length,  all  traces  of  the  "join" 
were  obliterated.  It  remained  only  to  arrange 
the  curls  of  the  lordly  wig  over  the  waxen  brow. 
The  disguise  was  done.  When  Lord  George 
looked  through  the  eyelets  of  his  mask  into 
the  mirror  that  was  placed  in  his  hand,  he  saw 
a  face  that  was  saintly,  itself  a  mirror  of  true 
love.  How  wonderful  it  was!  He  felt  his 
past  was  a  dream.  He  felt  he  was  a  new  man 
indeed.  His  voice  went  strangely  through  the 
mask's  parted  lips,  as  he  thanked  Mr.  Aeneas. 


33 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"Proud  to  have  served  your  lordship,"  said 
that  little  worthy,  pocketing  his  fee  of  fifty 
guineas,  while  he  bowed  his  customer  out. 

When  he  reached  the  street,  Lord  George 
nearly  uttered  a  curse  through  those  sainted  lips 
of  his.  For  there,  right  in  his  way,  stood  La 
Gambogi,  with  a  small,  pink  parasol.  She  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  sleeve  and  called  him.  softly 
by  his  name.  He  passed  her  by  without  a 
word.  Again  she  confronted  him. 

"I  cannot  let  go  so  handsome  a  lover,"  she 
laughed,  "even  though  he  spurn  me!  Do  not 
spurn  me,  George.  Give  me-  your  posy  of  wild 
flowers.  Why,  you  never  looked  so  lovingly 
at  me  in  all  your  life !" 

"Madam,"  said  Lord  George,  sternly,  "I 
have  not  the  honour  to  know  you."  And  he 
passed  on. 

The  lady  gazed  after  her  lost  lover  with  the 
blackest  hatred  in  her  eyes.  Presently  she 
beckoned  across  the  road  to  a  certain  spy. 

And  the  spy  followed  him. 

Lord  George,  greatly  agitated,  had  turned 
into  Piccadilly.  It  was  horrible  to  have  met 
34 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

this  garish  embodiment  of  his  past  on  the  very 
threshold  of  his  fair  future.  The  mask- 
maker's  elevating  talk  about  the  gods,  followed 
by  the  initiative  ceremony  of  his  saintly  mask, 
had  driven  all  discordant  memories  from  his 
love-thoughts  of  Jenny  Mere.  And  then  to  be 
met  by  La  Gambogi!  It  might  be  that,  after 
his  stern  words,  she  would  not  seek  to  cross 
his  path  again.  Surely  she  would  not  seek  to 
mar  his  sacred  love.  Yet,  he  knew  her  dark, 
Italian  nature,  her  passion  of  revenge.  What 
was  the  line  in  Virgil?  Spretaeque — some- 
thing. Who  knew  but  that  somehow,  sooner 
or  later,  she  might  come  between  him  and  his 
love? 

He  was  about  to  pass  Lord  Barrymore's 
mansion.  Count  Karoloff  and  Mr.  FitzClar- 
ence  were  lounging  in  one  of  the  lower  win- 
dows. Would  they  know  him  under  his  mask? 
Thank  God!  they  did  not.  They  merely 
laughed  as  he  went  by,  and  Mr.  FitzClarence 
cried  in  a  mocking  voice,  "Sing  us  a  hymn,  Mr. 
What-ever-your-saint's-name-is !"  The  mask, 
then,  at  least,  was  perfect.  Jenny  Mere  would 
35 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

not  know  him.  He  need  fear  no  one  but  La 
Gambogi.  But  would  not  she  betray  his  se- 
cret? He  sighed. 

That  night  he  was  going  to  visit  Garble's 
and  to  declare  his  love  to  the  little  actress.  He 
never  doubted  that  she  would  love  him  for 
his  saintly  face.  Had  she  not  said,  "That  man 
whose  face  is  wonderful  as  are  the  faces  of 
the  saints,  to  him  I  will  give  my  true  love"? 
She  could  not  say  now  that  his  face  was  as  a 
tarnished  mirror  of  love.  She  would  smile 
on  him.  She  would  be  his  bride.  But  would 
La  Gambogi  be  at  Garble's? 

The  operette  would  not  be  over  before  ten 
that  night.  The  clock  in  Hyde  Park  Gate  told 
him  it  was  not  yet  ten — ten  of  the  morning. 
Twelve  whole  hours  to  wait,  before  he  could 
fall  at  Jenny's  feet!  "I  cannot  spend  that  time 
in  this  place  of  memories,"  he  thought.  So  he 
hailed  a  yellow  cabriolet  and  bade  the  jarvey 
drive  him  out  to  the  village  of  Kensington. 

When  they  came  to  the  little  wood  where 
he  had  been  but  a  few  hours  ago,  Lord  George 
dismissed  the  jarvey.  The  sun,  that  had  risen 
36 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

as  he  stood  there  thinking  of  Jenny,  shone  down 
on  his  altered  face,  but,  though  it  shone  very 
fiercely,  it  did  not  melt  his  waxen  features. 
The  old  woodman,  who  had  shown  him  his 
way,  passed  by  under  a  load  of  faggots  and  did 
not  know  him.  He  wandered  among  the  trees. 
It  was  a  lovely  wood. 

Presently  he  came  to  the  bank  of  that  tiny 
stream,  the  Ken,  which  still  flowed  there  in 
those  days.  On  the  moss  of  its  bank  he  lay 
down  and  let  its  water  ripple  over  his  hand. 
Some  bright  pebble  glistened  under  the  sur- 
face, and,  as  he  peered  down  at  it,  he  saw  in 
the  stream  the  reflection  of  his  mask.  A  great 
shame  filled  him  that  he  should  so  cheat  the 
girl  he  loved.  Behind  that  fair  mask  there 
would  still  be  the  evil  face  that  had'  repelled 
her.  Could  he  be  so  base  as  to  decoy  her  into 
love  of  that  most  ingenious  deception?  He 
was  filled  with  a  great  pity  for  her,  with  a 
hatred  of  himself.  And  yet,  he  argued,  was 
the  mask  indeed  a  mean  trick?  Surely  it  was 
a  secret  symbol  of  his  true  repentance  and  of 
his  true  love.  His  face  was  evil,  because  his 
37 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

life  had  been  evil.  He  had  seen  a  gracious 
girl,  and  of  a  sudden  his  very  soul  had  changed. 
His  face  alone  was  the  same  as  it  had  been. 
It  was  not  just  that  his  face  should  be  evil 
still. 

There  was  the  faint  sound  of  some  one  sigh- 
ing. Lord  George  looked  up,  and  there,  on 
the  further  bank,  stood  Jenny  Mere,  watch- 
ing him.  As  their  eyes  met,  she  blushed  and 
hung  her  head.  She  looked  like  nothing  but 
a  tall  child,  as  she  stood  there,  with  her 
straight,  limp  frock  of  lilac  cotton  and  her  sun- 
burnt straw  bonnet.  He  dared  not  speak;  he 
could  only  gaze  at  her.  Suddenly  there 
perched  astride  the  bough  of  a  tree,  at  her  side, 
that  winged  and  laughing  child,  in  whose  hand 
was  a  bow.  Before  Lord  George  could  warn 
her,  an  arrow  had  flashed  down  and  vanished 
in  her  heart,  and  Cupid  had  flown  away. 

No  cry  of  pain  did  she  utter,  but  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  her  lover,  with  a  glad  smile. 
He  leapt  quite  lightly  over  the  little  stream  and 
knelt  at  her  feet.  It  seemed  more  fitting  that 


38 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

he  should  kneel  before  the  gracious  thing  he 
was  unworthy  of.  But  she,  knowing  only  that 
his  face  was  as  the  face  of  a  great  saint,  bent 
over  him  and  touched  him  with  her  hand. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "you  are  that  good  man 
for  whom  I  have  waited.  Therefore  do  not 
kneel  to  me,  but  rise  and  suffer  me  to  kiss  your 
hand.  For  my  love  of  you  is  lowly,  and  my 
heart  is  all  yours." 

But  he  answered,  looking  up  into  her  fond 
eyes,  "Nay,  you  are  a  queen,  and  I  must  needs 
kneel  in  your  presence." 

And  she  shook  her  head  wistfully,  and  she 
knelt  down,  also,  in  her  tremulous  ecstasy,  be- 
fore him.  And  as  they  knelt,  the  one  to  the 
other,  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes,  and  he 
kissed  her.  Though  the  lips  that  he  pressed 
to  her  lips  were  only  waxen,  he  thrilled  with 
happiness,  in  that  mimic  kiss.  He  held  her 
close  to  him  in  his  arms,  and  they  were  silent 
in  the  sacredness  of  their  love. 

From  his  breast  he  took  the  posy  of  wild 
flowers  that  he  had  gathered. 


39 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"They  are  for  you,"  he  whispered,  "I  gath- 
ered them  for  you,  hours  ago,  in  this  wood. 
See!  They  are  not  withered." 

But  she  was  perplexed  by  his  words  and  said 
to  him,  blushing,  "How  was  it  for  me  that  you 
gathered  them,  though  you  had  never  seen 
me?" 

"I  gathered  them  for  you,"  he  answered, 
"knowing  I  should  soon  see  you.  How  was  it 
that  you,  who  had  never  seen  me,  yet  waited 
forme?" 

"I  waited,  knowing  I  should  see  you  at  last." 
And  she  kissed  the  posy  and  put  it  at  her 
breast. 

And  they  rose  from  their  knees  and  went 
into  the  wood,  walking  hand  in  hand.  As  they 
went,  he  asked  the  names  of  the  flowers  that 
grew  under  their  feet.  "These  are  primroses," 
she  would  say.  "Did  you  not  know?  And 
these  are  ladies'  feet,  and  these  forget-me-nots. 
And  that  white  flower,  climbing  up  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  and  trailing  down  so  prettily  from 
the  branches,  is  called  Astyanax.  These  little 


40 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

yellow  things  are  buttercups.  Did  you  not 
know?"  And  she  laughed. 

"I  know  the  names  of  none  of  the  flowers," 
Le  said. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  and  said  timidly, 
"Is  it  worldly  and  wrong  of  me  to  have  loved 
the  flowers?  Ought  I  to  have  thought  more 
of  those  higher  things  that  are  unseen?" 

His  heart  smote  him.  He  could  not  answer 
her  simplicity. 

"Surely  the  flowers  are  good,  and  did  not 
you  gather  this  posy  for  me?"  she  pleaded. 
"But  if  you  do  not  love  them,  I  must  not.  And 
I  will  try  to  forget  their  names.  For  I  must 
try  to  be  like  you  in  all  things." 

"Love  the  flowers  always,"  he  said.  "And 
teach  me  to  love  them." 

So  she  told  him  all  about  the  flowers,  how 
some  grew  very  slowly  and  others  bloomed  in 
a  night;  how  clever  the  convolvulus  was  at 
climbing,  and  how  shy  violets  were,  and  why 
honeycups  had  folded  petals.  She  told  him  of 
the  birds,  too,  that  sang  in  the  wood,  how  she 


41 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

knew  them  all  by  their  voices.  "That  is  a 
chaffinch  singing.  Listen!"  she  said.  And 
she  tried  to  imitate  its  note,  that  her  lover 
might  remember.  All  the  birds,  according  to 
her,  were  good,  except  the  cuckoo,  and  when- 
ever she  heard  him  sing  she  would  stop  her 
ears,  lest  she  should  forgive  him  for  robbing 
the  nests.  "Every  day,"  she  said,  "I  have 
come  to  the  wood,  because  I  was  lonely,  and 
it  seemed  to  pity  me.  But  now  I  have  you. 
And  it  is  glad." 

She  clung  closer  to  his  arm,  and  he  kissed 
her.  She  pushed  back  her  straw  bonnet,  so 
that  it  dangled  from  her  neck  by  its  ribands, 
and  laid  her  little  head  against  his  shoulder. 
For  a  while  he  forgot  his  treachery  to  her, 
thinking  only  of  his  love  and  her  love.  Sud- 
denly she  said  to  him,  "Will  you  try  not  to 
be  angry  with  me,  if  I  tell  you  something?  It 
is  something  that  will  seem  dreadful  to  you." 

"Pauvrette"  he  answered,  "you  cannot  have 
anything  very  dreadful  to  tell." 

"I  am  very  poor,"  she  said,  "and  every  night 
I  dance  in  a  theatre.  It  is  the  only  thing  I 
42 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

can  do  to  earn  my  bread.  Do  you  despise  me 
because  I  dance?"  She  looked  up  shyly  at  him 
and  saw  that  his  face  was  full  of  love  for  her 
and  not  angry. 

"Do  you  like  dancing?"  he  asked. 

"I  hate  it,"  she  answered,  quickly.  "I  hate 
it  indeed.  Yet — to-night,  alas!  I  must  dance 
again  in  the  theatre." 

"You  need  never  dance  again,"  said  her 
lover.  "I  am  rich  and  I  will  pay  them  to  re- 
lease you.  You  shall  dance  only  for  me. 
Sweetheart,  it  cannot  be  much  more  than  noon. 
Let  us  go  into'  the  town,  while  there  is  time, 
and  you  shall  be  made  my  bride,  and  I  your 
bridegroom,  this  very  day.  Why  should  you 
and  I  be  lonely?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said. 

So  they  walked  back  through  the  wood,  tak- 
ing a  narrow  path  which  Jenny  said  would  lead 
them  quickest  to  the  village.  And,  as  they 
went,  they  came  to  a  tiny  cottage,  with  a  gar- 
den that  was  full  of  flowers.  The  old  wood- 
man was  leaning  over  its  paling,  and  he  nodded 
to  them  as  they  passed. 
43 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"I  often  used  to  envy  the  woodman,"  said 
Jenny,  "living  in  that  dear  little  cottage." 

"Let  us  live  there,  then,"  said  Lord  George. 
And  he  went  back  and  asked  the  old  man  if 
he  were  not  unhappy,  living  there  alone. 

'Tis  a  poor  life  here  for  me,"  the  old  man 
answered.  "No  folk  come  to  the  wood,  ex- 
cept little  children,  now  and  again,  to  play,  or 
lovers  like  you.  But  they  seldom  notice  me. 
And  in  winter  I  am  alone  with  Jack  Frost. 
Old  men  love  merrier  company  than  that.  Oh ! 
I  shall  die  in  the  snow  with  my  faggots  on  my 
back.  A  poor  life  here !" 

"I  will  give  you  gold  for  your  cottage  and 
whatever  is  in  it,  and  then  you  can  go  and  live 
happily  in  the  town,"  Lord  George  said.  And 
he  took  from  his  coat  a  note  for  two  hundred 
guineas,  and  held  it  across  the  palings. 

"Lovers  are  poor,  foolish  derry-docks,"  the 
old  man  muttered.  "But  I  thank  you  kindly, 
sir.  This  little  sum  will  keep  me  cosy,  as  long 
as  I  last.  Come  into  the  cottage  as  soon  as 
can  be.  It's  a  lonely  place  and  does  my  heart 
good  to  depart  from  it." 
44 


"We  are  going  to  be  married  this  afternoon, 
in  the  town,"  said  Lord  George.  "We  will 
come  straight  back  to  our  home." 

"May  you  be  happy!"  replied  the  woodman. 
"You'll  find  me  gone  when  you  come." 

And  the  lovers  thanked  him  and  went  their 
way. 

"Are  you  very  rich?"  Jenny  asked.  "Ought 
you  to  have  bought  the  cottage  for  that  great 
price?" 

"Would  you  love  me  as  much  if  I  were  quite 
poor,  little  Jenny?"  he  asked  her  after  a  pause. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  rich  when  I  saw 
you  across  the  stream,"  she  said. 

And  in  his  heart  Lord  George  made  a  good 
resolve.  He  would  put  away  from  him  all  his 
worldly  possessions.  All  the  money  that  he 
had  won  at  the  clubs,  fairly  or  foully,  all  that 
hideous  accretion  of  gold  guineas,  he  would  dis- 
tribute among  the  comrades  he  had  impover- 
ished. As  he  walked,  with  the  sweet  and  trust- 
ful girl  at  his  side,  the  vague  record  of  his 
infamy  assailed  him,  and  a  look  of  pain  shot 
behind  his  smooth  mask.  He  would  atone. 
45 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

He  would  shun  no  sacrifice  that  might  cleanse 
his  soul.  All  his  fortune  he  would  put  from 
him.  Follard  Chase  he  would  give  back  to  Sir 
Follard.  He  would  sell  his  house  in  St. 
James's  Square.  He  would  keep  some  little 
part  of  his  patrimony,  enough  for  him  in  the 
wood,  with  Jenny,  but  no  more. 

"I  shall  be  quite  poor,  Jenny,"  he  said. 

And  they  talked  of  the  things  that  lovers 
love  to  talk  of,  how  happy  they  would  be  to- 
gether and  how  economical.  As  they  were 
passing  Herbert's  pastry  shop,  which  as  my  lit- 
tle readers  know,  still  stands  in  Kensington, 
Jenny  looked  up  rather  wistfully  into  her 
lover's  ascetic  face. 

"Should  you  think  me  greedy,"  she  asked 
him,  "if  I  wanted  a  bun?  They  have  beauti- 
ful buns  here !" 

Buns !  The  simple  word  started  latent  mem- 
ories of  his  childhood.  Jenny  was  only  a  child, 
after  all.  Buns !  He  had  forgotten  what  they 
were  like.  And  as  they  looked  at  the  piles  of 
variegated  cakes  in  the  window,  he  said  to  her, 


46 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"Which  are  buns,  Jenny?  I  should  like  to 
have  one,  too." 

"I  am  almost  afraid  of  you,"  she  said. 
"You  must  despise  me  so.  Are  you  so  good 
that  you  deny  yourself  all  the  vanity  and  pleas- 
ure that  most  people  love?  It  is  wonderful 
not  to  know  what  buns  are !  The  round, 
brown,  shiny  cakes,  with  little  raisins  in  them, 
are  buns." 

So  he  bought  two  beautiful  buns,  and  they 
sat  together  in  the  shop,  eating  them.  Jenny 
bit  hers  rather  diffidently,  but  was  reassured 
when  he  said  that  they  must  have  buns  very 
often  in  the  cottage.  Yes !  he,  the  famous 
toper  and  gourmet  of  St.  James's,  relished  this 
homely  fare,  as  it  passed  through  the  insensible 
lips  of  his  mask  to  his  palate.  He  seemed  to 
rise,  from  the  consumption  of  his  bun,  a  bet- 
ter man. 

But  there  was  no  time  to  lose  now.  It  was 
already  past  two  o'clock.  So  he  got  a  chaise 
from  the  inn  opposite  the  pastry-shop,  and  they 
were  swiftly  driven  to  Doctors'  Commons. 


47 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

There  he  purchased  a  special  license.  When 
the  clerk  asked  him  to  write  his  name  upon  it, 
he  hesitated.  What  name  should  he  assume? 
Under  a  mask  he  had  wooed  this  girl,  under 
an  unreal  name  he  must  make  her  his  bride. 
He  loathed  himself  for  a  trickster.  He  had 
vilely  stolen  from  her  the  love  she  would  not 
give  him.  Even  now,  should  he  not  confess 
himself  the  man  whose  face  had  frightened 
her,  and  go  his  way?  And  yet,  surely,  it  was 
not  just  that  he,  whose  soul  was  transfigured, 
should  bear  his  old  name.  Surely  George  Hell 
was  dead,  and  his  name  had  died  with  him.  So 
he  dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink  and  wrote  "George 
Heaven,"  for  want  of  a  better  name.  And 
Jenny  wrote  "Jenny  Mere"  beneath  it. 

An  hour  later  they  were  married  according 
to  the  simple  rites  of  a  dear  little  registry  of- 
fice in  Covent  Garden. 

And  in  the  cool  evening  they  went  home. 


In  the  cottage  that  had  been  the  woodman's 
they  had  a  wonderful  honeymoon.     No  king 
48 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

and  queen  in  any  palace  of  gold  were  happier 
than  they.  For  them  their  tiny  cottage  was  a 
palace,  and  the  flowers  that  filled  the  garden 
were  their  couriers.  Long  and  careless  and 
full  of  kisses  were  the  days  of  their  reign. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  strange  dreams  troubled 
Lord  George's  sleep.  Once  he  dreamt  that  he 
stood  knocking  and  knocking  at  the  great  door 
of  a  castle.  It  was  a  bitter  night.  The  frost 
enveloped  him.  No  one  came.  Presently  he 
heard  a  footstep  in  the  hall  beyond,  and  a  pair 
of  frightened  eyes  peered  at  him  through  the 
grill.  Jenny  was  scanning  his  face.  •  She 
would  not  open  to  him.  With  tears  and  wild 
words  he  beseeched  her,  but  she  would  not  open 
to  him.  Then,  very  stealthily,  he  crept  round 
the  castle  and  found  a  small  casement  in  the 
wall.  It  was  open.  He  climbed  swiftly, 
quietly  through  it.  In  the  darkness  of  the 
room  some  one  ran  to  him  and  kissed  him 
gladly.  It  was  Jenny.  With  a  cry  of  joy  and 
shame  he  awoke.  By  his  side  lay  Jenny,  sleep- 
ing like  a  little  child. 

After  all,  what  was  a  dream  to  him?  It 
49 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

could  not  mar  the  reality  of  his  daily  happi- 
ness. He  cherished  his  true  penitence  for  the 
evil  he  had  done  in  the  past.  The  past !  That 
was  indeed  the  only  unreal  thing  that  lingered 
in  his  life.  Every  day  its  substance  dwindled, 
grew  fainter  yet,  as  he  lived  his  rustic  honey- 
moon. Had  he  not  utterly  put  it  from  him? 
Had  he  not,  a  few  hours  after  his  marriage, 
written  to  his  lawyer,  declaring  solemnly  that 
he,  Lord  George  Hell,  had  forsworn  the  world, 
that  he  was  where  no  man  would  find  him, 
that  he  desired  all  his  worldly  goods  to  be 
distributed,  thus  and  thus,  among  these  and 
those  of  his  companions?  By  this  testament 
he  had  verily  atoned  for  the  wrong  he  had 
done,  had  made  himself  dead  indeed  to  the 
world. 

No  address  had  he  written  upon  this  docu- 
ment. Though  its  injunctions  were  final  and 
binding,  it  could  betray  no  clue  of  his  hiding- 
place.  For  the  rest,  no  one  would  care  to 
seek  him  out.  He,  who  had  done  no  good  to 
human  creature,  would  pass  unmourned  out  of 
memory.  The  clubs,  doubtless,  would  laugh 
50 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

and  puzzle  over  his  strange  recantations,  en- 
vious of  whomever  he  enriched.  They  would 
say  'twas  a  good  riddance  of  a  rogue  and  soon 
forget  him.1  But  she,  whose  prime  patron  he 
had  been,  who  had  loved  him  in  her  vile  fash- 
ion, La  Gambogi,  would  she  forget  him  easily, 
like  the  rest?  As  the  sweet  days  went  by,  her 
spectre,  also,  grew  fainter  and  less  formidable. 
She  knew  his  mask  indeed,  but  how  should  she 
find  him  in  the  cottage  near  Kensington? 
Devia  dulcedo  latebrarum!  He  was  safe  hid- 
den with  his  bride.  As  for  the  Italian,  she 

1 1  would  refer  my  little  readers  once  more  to  the  pages 
of  Contemporary  Bucks,  where  Captain  Tarleton  specu- 
lates upon  the  sudden  disappearance  of  Lord  George  Hell 
and  describes  its  effect  on  the  town.  "Not  even  the 
shrewdest,"  says  he,  "even  gave  a  guess  that  would 
throw  a  ray  of  revealing  light  on  the  disparition  of  this 
profligate  man.  It  was  supposed  that  he  carried  off  with 
him  a  little  dancer  from  Garble's,  at  which  haunt  of 
pleasantry  he  was  certainly  on  the  night  he  vanished,  and 
whither  the  young  lady  never  returned  again.  Garble 
declared  he  had  been  compensated  for  her  perfidy,  but 
that  he  was  sure  she  had  not  succumbed  to  his  lordship, 
having  in  fact  rejected  'him  soundly.  Did  his  lordship, 
say  the  cronies,  take  his  life — and  hers?  //  n'y  a  pas 
d'epreuve. 

51 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

might    search    and   search — or   had    forgotten 
him,  in  the  arms  of  another  lover. 

Yes!  Few  and  faint  became  the  blemishes 
of  his  honeymoon.  At  first,  he  had  felt  that  his 
waxen  mask,  though  it  had  been  the  means  of 
his  happiness,  was  rather  a  barrier  'twixt  him 
and  his  bride.  Though  it  was  sweet  to  kiss  her 
through  it,  to  look  at  her  through  it  with  loving 
eyes,  yet  there  were  times  when  it  incommoded 
him  with  its  mockery.  Could  he  but  put  it  from 
him !  yet,  that,  of  course,  could  not  be.  He 
must  wear  it  all  his  life.  And  so,  as  days  went 
by  he  grew  reconciled  to  his  mask.  No  longer 
did  he  feel  it  jarring  on  his  face.  It  seemed 
to  become  an  integral  part  of  him,  and,  for  all 
its  rigid  material,  it  did  forsooth  express  the 
one  emotion  that  filled  him,  true  love.  The 

"The  most  astonishing  matter  is  that  the  runaway  should 
have  written  out  a  complete  will,  restoring  all  money  he 
had  won  at  cards,  etc.,  etc.  This  certainly  corroborates 
the  opinion  that  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  repentance 
and  fled  over  the  seas  to  a  foreign  monastery,  where  he 
died  at  last  in  Religious  silence.  That's  as  it  may,  but 
many  a  spendthrift  found  his  pocket  clinking  with  guineas, 
a  not  unpleasant  sound,  I  declare.  The  Regent  himself 
was  benefited  by  the  odd  will,. and  old  Sir  Follard  Follard 

52 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

face,  for  whose  sake  Jenny  gave  him  her  heart, 
could  not  but  be  dear  to  this  George  Heaven, 
also. 

Every  day  chastened  him  with  its  joy.  They 
lived  a  very  simple  life,  he  and  Jenny.  They 
rose  betimes,  like  the  birds,  for  whose  goodness 
they  both  had  so  sincere  a  love.  Bread  and 
honey  and  little  strawberries  were  their  morn- 
ing fare,  and  in  the  evening  they  had  seed  cake 
and  dewberry  wine.  Jenny  herself  made  the 
wine  and  her  husband  drank  it,  in  strict  moder- 
ation, never  more  than  two  glasses.  He 
thought  it  tasted  far  better  than  the  Regent's 
cherry  brandy,  or  the  Tokay  at  Brooks's.  Of 
these  treasured  topes  he  had,  indeed,  nearly  for- 
gotten the  taste.  The  wine  made  from  wild 
berries  by  his  little  bride  was  august  enough  for 

found  himself  once  more  in  the  ancestral  home  he  had 
forfeited.  As  for  Lord  George's  mansion  in  St.  James's 
Square,  that  was  sold  with  all  its  appurtenances,  and  the 
money  fetched  by  the  sale,  no  bagatelle,  was  given  to 
various  good  objects,  according  to  my  lord's  stated  wishes. 
Well,  many  of  us  blessed  his  name — we  had  cursed  it 
often  enough.  Peace  to  his  ashes,  in  whatever  urn  they 
may  be  resting,  on  the  billows  of  whatever  ocean  they 
float!" 

53 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

his  palate.  Sometimes,  after  they  had  dined 
thus,  he  would  play  the  flute  to  her  upon  the 
moonlit  lawn,  or  tell  her  of  the  great  daisy- 
chain  he  was  going  to  make  for  her  on  the  mor- 
row, or  sit  silently  by  her  side,  listening  to  the 
nightingale,  till  bedtime.  So  admirably  simple 
were  their  days. 

One  morning,  as  he  was  helping  Jenny  to  wa- 
ter the  flowers,  he  said  to  her  suddenly,  "Sweet- 
heart, we  had  forgotten!" 

"What  was  there  we  should  forget?"  asked 
Jenny,  looking  up  from  her  task. 

"  'Tis  the  mensiversary  of  our  wedding,"  her 
husband  answered  gravely.  "We  must  not  let 
it  pass  without  some  celebration." 

"No,  indeed,"  she  said,  "we  must  not.  What 
shall  we  do?" 

Between  them  they  decided  upon  an  unusual 
feast.  They  would  go  into  the  village  and  buy 
a  bag  of  beautiful  buns  and  eat  them  in  the  aft- 
ernoon. So  soon,  then,  as  all  the  flowers  were 
watered,  they  set  forth  to  Herbert's  shop, 
bought  the  buns  and  returned  home  in  very 


54 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

high  spirits,  George  bearing  a  paper  bag  that 
held  no  less  than  twelve  of  the  wholesome  deli- 
cacies. Under  the  plane  tree  on  the  lawn 
Jenny  sat  her  down,  and  George  stretched  him- 
self at  her  feet.  They  were  loth  to  enjoy  their 
feast  too  soon.  They  dallied  in  childish  antic- 
ipation. On  the  little  rustic  table  Jenny  built 
up  the  buns,  one  above  the  other,  till  they 
looked  like  a  tall  pagoda.  When,  very  gin- 
gerly, she  had  crowned  the  structure  with  the 
twelfth  bun,  her  husband  looking  on  with  ad- 
miration, she  clapped  her  hands  and  danced 
about  it.  She  laughed  so  loudly  (for,  though 
she  was  only  sixteen  years  old,  she  had  a  great 
sense  of  humour),  that  the  table  shook,  and 
alas !  the  pagoda  tottered  and  fell  to  the  lawn. 
Swift  as  a  kitten,  Jenny  chased  the  buns,  as 
they  rolled,  hither  and  thither,  over  the  grass, 
catching  them  deftly  with  her  hand.  Then  she 
came  back,  flushed  and  merry  under  her  tum- 
bled hair,  with  her  arm  full  of  buns.  She  be- 
gan to  put  them  back  in  the  paper  bag. 

"Dear  husband,"  she  said,  looking  down  to 


55 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

him,  "why  do  not  you  smile  too  at  my  folly? 
Your  grave  face  rebukes  me.  Smile,  or  I  shall 
think  I  vex  you.  Please  smile  a  little." 

But  the  mask  could  not  smile,  of  course.  It 
was  made  for  a  mirror  of  true  love,  and  it  was 
grave  and  immobile.  "I  am  very  much  amused, 
dear,"  he  said,  "at  the  fall  of  the  buns,  but  my 
lips  will  not  curve  to  a  smile.  Love  of  you  has 
bound  them  in  spell." 

"But  I  can  laugh,  though  I  love  you.  I  do 
not  understand."  And  she  wondered.  He 
took  her  hand  in  his  and  stroked  it  gently, 
wishing  it  were  possible  to  smile.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  she  would  tire  of  this  monotonous 
gravity,  this  rigid  sweetness.  It  was  not 
strange  that  she  should  long  for  a  little  facile 
expression.  They  sat  silently. 

"Jenny,  what  is  it?"  he  whispered  suddenly. 
For  Jenny,  with  wide-open  eyes,  was  gazing 
over  his  head,  across  the  lawn.  "Why  do  you 
look  frightened?" 

"There  is  a  strange  woman  smiling  at  me 
across  the  palings,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  know 
her." 

56 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

Her  husband's  heart  sank.  Somehow,  he 
dared  not  turn  his  head  to  the  intruder.  He 
dreaded  who  she  might  be. 

"She  is'  nodding  to  me,"  said  Jenny. 
"I  think  she  is  foreign,  for  she  has  an  evil 
face." 

"Do  not  notice  her,"  he  whispered.  "Does 
she  look  evil?" 

"Very  evil  and  very  dark.  She  has  a  pink 
parasol.  Her  teeth  are  like  ivory." 

"Do  not  notice  her.  Think!  It  is  the  men- 
siversary  of  our  wedding,  dear !" 

"I  wish  she  would  not  smile  at  me.  Her 
eyes  are  like  bright  blots  of  ink." 

"Let  us  eat  our  beautiful  buns !" 

"Oh,  she  is  coming  in!"  George  heard  the 
latch  of  the  gate  jar.  "Forbid  her  to  come 
in!"  whispered  Jenny,  "I  am  afraid!"  He 
heard  the  jar  of  heels  on  the  gravel  path.  Yet 
he  dared  not  turn.  Only  he  clasped  Jenny's 
hand  more  tightly,  as  he  waited  for  the  voice. 
It  was  La  Gambogi's. 

"Pray,  pray,  pardon  me!     I  could  not  mis- 
take the  back  of  so  old  a  friend." 
57 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

With  the  courage  of  despair,  George  turned 
and  faced  the  woman. 

"Even,"  she  smiled,  "though  his  face  has 
changed  marvellously." 

"Madam,"  he  said,  rising  to  his  full  height 
and  stepping  between  her  and  his  bride,  "be- 
gone, I  command  you,  from  the  garden.  I  do 
not  see  what  good  is  to  be  served  by  the  renewal 
of  our  acquaintance." 

"Acquaintance!"  murmured  La  Gambogi, 
with  an  arch  of  her  beetle-brows.  "Surely  we 
were  friends,  rather,  nor  is  my  esteem  for  you 
so  dead  that  I  would  crave  estrangement." 

"Madam,"  rejoined  Lord  George,  with  a 
tremor  in  his  voice,  "you  see  me  happy,  living 
very  peacefully  with  my  bride — " 

"To  whom,  I  beseech  you,  old  friend,  pre- 
sent me." 

"I  would  not,"  he  said  hotly,  "desecrate  her 
sweet  name  by  speaking  it  with  so  infamous  a 
name  as  yours." 

"Your  choler  hurts  me,  old  friend,"  said  La 
Gambogi,  sinking  composedly  upon  the  garden- 
seat  and  smoothing  the  silk  of  her  skirts. 
58 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

"Jenny,"  said  George,  "then  do  you  retire, 
pending  this  lady's  departure,  to  the  cottage." 
But  Jenny  clung  to  his  arm.  "I  were  less 
frightened  at  your  side,"  she  whispered.  "Do 
not  send  me  away!" 

"Suffer  her  pretty  presence,"  said  La  Gam- 
bogi.  "Indeed  I  am  come  this  long  way  from 
the  heart  of  the  town,  that  I  may  see  her,  no 
less  than  you,  George.  My  wish  is  only  to  be- 
friend her.  Why  should  she  not  set  you  a 
mannerly  example,  giving  me  welcome  ?  Come 
and  sit  by  me,  little  bride,  for  I  have  things  to 
tell  you.  Though  you  reject  my  friendship, 
give  me,  at  least,  the  slight  courtesy  of  audi- 
ence. I  will  not  detain  you  overlong,  will  be 
gone  very  soon.  Are  you  expecting  guests, 
George?  On  dirait  une  masque  champetre!" 
She  eyed  the  couple  critically.  "Your  wife's 
mask,"  she  said,  "is  even  better  than  yours." 

"What  does  she  mean?"  whispered  Jenny. 
"Oh,  send  her  away!" 

"Serpent,"  was  all  George  could  say,  "crawl 
from  our  Eden,  ere  you  poison  with  your  venom 
its  fairest  denizen." 

59 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

La  Gambogi  rose.  "Even  my  pride,"  she 
cried  passionately,  "knows  certain  bounds.  I 
have  been  forbearing,  but  even  in  my  zeal  for 
friendship  I  will  not  be  called  'serpent.'  I  will 
indeed  begone  from  this  rude  place.  Yet,  ere 
I  go,  there  is  a  boon  I  will  deign  to  beg.  Show 
me,  oh  show- me  but  once  again,  the  dear  face  I 
have  so  often  caressed,  the  lips  that  were  dear 
tome!" 

George  started  back. 

"What  does  she  mean?"  whispered  Jenny. 

"In  memory  of  our  old  friendship,"  contin- 
ued La  Gambogi,  "grant  me  this  piteous  favour. 
Show  me  your  own  face  but  for  one  instant, 
and  I  vow  I  will  never  again  remind  you  that  I 
live.  Intercede  for  me,  little  bride.  Bid  him 
unmask  for  me.  You  have  more  authority 
over  him  than  I.  Doff  his  mask  with  your  own 
uxorious  fingers." 

"What  does  she  mean?"  was  the  refrain  of 
poor  Jenny. 

"If,"  said  George,  gazing  sternly  at  his 
traitress,  "you  do  not  go  now,  of  your  own  will, 


60 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

I  must  drive  you,  man  though  I  am,  violently 
from  the  garden." 

"Doff  your  mask  and  I  am  gone." 

George  made  a  step  of  menace  towards  her. 

"False  saint!"  she  shrieked,  "then  /  will  un- 
mask you." 

Like  a  panther  she  sprang  upon  him  and 
clawed  at  his  waxen  cheeks.  Jenny  fell  back, 
mute  with  terror.  Vainly  did  George  try  to 
free  himself  from  the  hideous  assailant,  who 
writhed  round  and  round  him,  clawing,  clawing 
at  what  Jenny  fancied  to  be  his  face.  With  a 
wild  cry,  Jenny  fell  upon  the  furious  creature 
and  tried,  with  all  her  childish  strength,  to  re- 
lease her  dear  one.  The  combatives  swayed 
to  and  fro,  a  revulsive  trinity.  There  was  a 
loud  pop,  as  though  some  great  cork  had  been 
withdrawn,  and  La  Gambogi  recoiled.  She 
had  torn  away  the  mask.  It  lay  before  her 
upon  the  lawn,  upturned  to  the  sky. 

George  stood  motionless.  La  Gambogi 
stared  up  into  his  face,  and  her  dark  flush  died 
swiftly  away.  For  there,  staring  back  at  her, 


61 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

was  the  man  she  had  unmasked,  but,  lo  !  his  face 
was  even  as  his  mask  had  been.  Line  for  line, 
feature  for  feature,  it  was  the  same.  'Twas  a 
saint's  face. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  in  the  calm  voice  of  de- 
spair, "your  cheek  may  well  blanch,  when  you 
regard  the  ruin  you  have  brought  upon  me. 
Nevertheless  do  I  pardon  you.  The  gods  have 
avenged,  through  you,  the  imposture  I  wrought 
upon  one  who  was  dear  to  me.  For  that  un- 
pardonable sin  I  am  punished.  As  for  my  poor 
bride,  whose  love  I  stole  by  the  means  of  that 
waxen  semblance,  of  her  I  cannot  ask  pardon. 
Ah,  Jenny,  Jenny,  do  not  look  at  me.  Turn 
your  eyes  from  the  foul  reality  that  I  dissem- 
bled." He  shuddered  and  hid  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "Do  not  look  at  me.  I  will  go  from 
the  garden.  Nor  will  I  ever  curse  you  with  the 
odious  spectacle  of  my  face.  Forget  me,  for- 
get me." 

But,  as  he  turned  to  go,  Jenny  laid  her  hands 

upon  his  wrists  and  besought  him  that  he  would 

look  at  her.     "For  indeed,"  she  said,  "I  am 

bewildered  by  your  strange  words.     Why  did 

62 


THE  HAPPY  HYPOCRITE 

you  woo  me  under  a  mask?  And  why  do  you 
imagine  I  could  love  you  less  dearly,  seeing 
your  own  face?" 

He  looked  into  her  eyes.  On  their  violet 
surface  he  saw  the  tiny  reflection  of  his  own 
face.  He  was  filled  with  joy  and  wonder. 

"Surely,"  said  Jenny,  "your  face  is  even 
dearer  to  me,  even  fairer,  than  the  semblance 
that  hid  it  and  deceived  me.  I  am  not  angry. 
'Twas  well  that  you  veiled  from  me  the  full 
glory  of  your  face,  for  indeed  I  was  not  worthy 
to  behold  it  too  soon.  But  I  am  your  wife  now. 
Let  me  look  always  at  your  own  face.  Let  the 
time  of  my  probation  be  over.  Kiss  me  with 
your  own  lips." 

So  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  as  though  she  had 
been  a  little  child,  and  kissed  her  with  his  own 
lips.  She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  he 
was  happier  than  he  had  ever  been.  They 
were  alone  in  the  garden  now.  Nor  lay  the 
mask  any  longer  upon  the  lawn,  for  the  sun  had 
melted  it. 


63 


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